


Just the One, Two

by Panny



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Power Swap, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-08 23:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny
Summary: "What more do you want?""To save the world, of course."They say you should never meet your heroes, but what about when you've been sort of in love with them since they broke your mother's marble sink?Anti-superhuman paranoia is on the rise in New York and something that looks a little like an accident and a lot like a hit leaves Jess unexpectedly vulnerable. And Trish? Trish is making some adjustments.





	Just the One, Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moebius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moebius/gifts).



When Trish Walker was still better known as Patsy, her mother chose to adopt one of her classmates as a publicity stunt. A girl she barely knew - normal in all the ways that Trish wasn't, exceptional in all the ways Trish was never allowed to be, and unfortunate in ways that Trish wished that she knew how to sympathise with. It was the nightmare scenario. The worst part was that Trish was pretty sure her mother hadn’t actually _meant_ to ruin her life this time.

Trish's home had never been a safe haven. Even her bedroom was a set piece, perfectly staged so that the lighting on her all-American girl next door bed sheets would film well on studio cameras. Even so, Trish had never thought that her mother would let someone peak inside while the cameras weren’t rolling and their make-up wasn’t done. This wasn’t parties or drugs or late nights with The Wrong People, this was their _home_ where Trish and her mother laid their ugliness bare and knew each other for exactly what they were. _They_ knew and no one else – that was point. If there was someone else, how could Trish get to be more than her brand ever again?

The only silver lining was that maybe someone else would know what it was like to be used by Dorothy Walker. Except that Trish would never wish that on anybody. Except that sometimes she did.

And then-

“What happened to your shoulder?”

“Are you kidding me?”

And then Jessica Jones broke her sink and everything changed.

Captain America was still only a footnote in the history textbooks and just on the wrong side of too good to be true besides. Jessica Jones was real and breathing and kind of awful sometimes.

Pieces of her life that Trish had only ever tried to make sense of were now too clearly the wrong colour and shape to ever fit.

“I don’t tell. And you _don’t_ save me.”

Jessica was a character from a comic book, someone Trish had only pretended to be in her wildest fantasies. And Trish had sworn to mutual apathy, to zip her lips and pretend like it didn't matter so that they could go on resenting their situation in peace. Anything not to play the victim.

But even then-

“You’re hurt. She hurt you.”

No one had ever, ever put it like that. No one had ever dared acknowledge it outright.

Even if Jessica was crazy and rude and the worst thing that had ever happened to her, Trish kind of loved her for that. From day one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“-and for those who can't volunteer their time, WNEX is prepared to match every dollar donated to help the hospital rebuild. Visit our website to find out more about how you can help.”

Trish swallowed around the neck of her water bottle, glancing at the glass that sealed off the recording booth. Nicole nodded encouragingly on the other side, hand circling in the universal gesture for 'wrap it up'.

“These past few years have been a trying time for New York. A time full of circumstances that we never could have anticipated.” A pause, a breath. Hesitation where there shouldn’t be. “It's good to know that one thing that hasn't changed is the people of New York's willingness to stand up for each other - whatever form that takes. Even if no one will thank them for it. So, this is me saying 'thank you'.

“I'm Trish Walker and this has been _Trish Talk_. See you next week, New York. Take care of each other.”

Nicole punctuated the end of the broadcast by enthusiastically high-fiving their newest intern. Jen, still fumbling through inexperience and Bambi-like uncertainty, smiled hesitantly back as she hung up her headset.

There was no guaranteed way to screen calls for a live show. Not unless you sourced them, vetted them, and even recorded them in advance and genuine, in-the-moment discussion had always been a _Trish Talk_ trademark. Even if the show increasingly produced episodes that were only 'lifestyle' in the broadest sense, there were some things she was not willing to sacrifice in order to expedite change. Integrity was one of them.

So, Jen came in every show and sat at the computer on the other side of the glass and they all tried to feel better about it, even if it wouldn't prevent another Killgrave.

It was the figurative steel-reinforced door. Private Krav Maga lessons every Wednesday. The illegal handgun in her purse.

She donned her jacket with deliberate composure as she left the booth, covering bruises more out of habit than embarrassment. She tried not to notice the way that the conversation stuttered when she opened the door. She didn't think of herself as a particularly difficult boss by any means, but she was still The Boss. “Thanks for all your hard work this week.”

“Oh, you too," Nicole said, rallying first. She had really flourished under the responsibility of being the more experienced party for a change. “Jen handed off any new blocked numbers to Zack. You know - for posterity.”

“There were only two today,” Jen said.

“Good to hear. Thank you." Zack would probably be in meetings for a couple of hours yet. She'd have to find a way to occupy herself if she wanted to catch him before the weekend.

“Um, hey, Trish.” Nicole was speaking again. Trish hoped that she hadn't caught her inattentiveness. “Me, Jen, and a few of the other girls are going out for ladies' night. I know you probably get a lot of invites, but if you want -”

“I'm sorry, I have plans,” Trish said and maybe she even felt genuinely regretful for it.

“Oh. Oh, of course. Don't even worry about it.”

The walk to her office was short and direct and never felt private even when the building was starting to empty out. She sat at her desk and looked through old names and numbers and wished that she was looking at a more interesting set of files that she kept safely hidden at home.

Call-screening wouldn't prevent a Killgrave and that was the problem. It hadn't even prevented Mary from Long Island or Jack from Queens (who turned out to be Craig from Manhattan when the threats had become specific enough that WNEX's legal team took over). If someone cared enough about getting through, they probably would. So, it was terribly unlikely that any of the numbers in any of these folders had anything at all to do with IGH.

Except that one of them might and all she needed was one.

It wasn't that she wanted to attract the wrong kind of attention - she had done that before and it wouldn't always work out well. But between the digging and Jessica and Simpson, it was almost inevitable, wasn't it? And at least if she had a lead, an enemy she could talk to, she'd have a better idea of what they were up against. And what she could do about it.

By the time Zack came by, the sun had moved far enough past her window that she had to rely on artificial light. She tried not to let her eyes linger too obviously on the folder tucked under his arm. “Good work today, Trish. I liked the sign off - very home-team-pride. And you did the hospital piece without even mentioning the spider guy or the sand guy.”

“We agreed that I wouldn't. I just keep talking past the point and everyone knows exactly what I’m not saying. It’s only going to make people want to hear about it more.”

“So, let them look up true encounters stories on YouTube. We are a _classy_ radio talk show.”

“Superheroes hold press conferences these days. _We_ are behind the times.”

His smile tightened. “Right. 'Thank you', huh?”

“You and I both know that things could have ended a lot worse last week. I happen to be grateful that they didn't.” Zack raised an eyebrow – not mocking, but not quite ready to take her seriously either. “Look, maybe if we acknowledge that Spider-Man was the only thing that kept Queens from looking like the wrong end of an hour glass, he wouldn't get shot at as often.”

“And maybe you could learn a thing or two from him. Not taking the bullet doesn't make you the bad guy.”

“Sure, but maybe that's easier to say when you have someone willing to take the bullet for you.”

“Look, Trish, I know you have…personal stakes in this, but you need to give people time. They can accept the big guys, somewhere out there, keeping us safe from alien invasions once a year. But that the person next to you might be able to bench press a car or take a bullet without flinching? That’s a lot.”

Zack placed his hand on the desk, body language open to display carefully friendly intent, but it still made her feel…disconcertingly cornered. She hadn’t realized when she had broken eye contact, fatigue-blurred numbers staring back up at her from the last page she’d reviewed. “We've already gone to bat for these people before, on your request. Anyone who cares knows where you stand,” he said. “But if someone shows up at my house with a gun? Or, I don't know, laser eyes? Are these heroes gonna be there for me then?”

“They might.”

He placed the folder on the desk, pointedly covering the others he’d given her in weeks passed. “Might's not good enough, Trish. I wish it was.”

 

 

Trish’s phone vibrated energetically on the kitchen table-cum-desk, screen bright and startling in the dim apartment. Trish looked at Jess’s name on the caller ID and hesitated only a moment before picking up. “Hey.”

“When I say 'let's do lunch', I mean 'Trish, do me a favor'. When Trish says 'let's do lunch', she means-?”

“Shit.” Trish pushed her hair back, trying to rationalize where plans had been lost in the course of the day. “ _Shit_. I’m sorry, I don’t know how I forgot.”

“It’s fine, but I’m just usually the one doing the standing up. I’ve never known you to be anything less than punctual when there’s coffee involved.”

“I was just…caught up in some work stuff. I really can’t believe I forgot – I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’d take twenty wings and a beer right now, if you’re offering. And then you can tell me all about what 'work stuff' the boss lady stuck you with on a Friday - I hear she's a real slave driver.”

Trish frowned, shifting the phone to cradle against her shoulder. “Is this another stakeout at a dive bar? Because last time -”

“Nah, Malcolm's finally made good on his threats to visit his parents. I'm slacking off as much as I can while there's nobody to answer the phone calls I'm dodging. Not a stakeout - I promise.”

“I didn't say I wasn't in if it was. And, anyway, what about your rent?”

“Paid. Aliens could invade New York - again - and someone's husband would still find time to slip into the 7-Eleven bathroom for a quickie with his Hooters waitress. I'll get by.”

“You could be doing a lot more than just getting by.”

“Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm unevictable at this point,” Jessica said, plowing past Trish’s concern. “The cost of taking me to court for the damages, truly excessive as they are, far outweighs whatever anyone else would be willing to pay for this dump. For some reason, they didn’t factor bullet holes or maniacs punching through the walls in world record setting exhibitions of ‘roid rage into the deposit – which is a hell of a gamble considering this is New York.”

Trish raised an eyebrow that Jessica couldn’t see and let her silence speak for her. Clearly, Jessica must have took her meaning because she added: “Look, things have been kind of...okay lately. Be happy for me, maybe?”

“Of course I'm happy for you,” Trish said. “I'd just be happier if you were happy for you.”

“Ugh, that’s corny. And perceptive. Let’s just not talk about my shit right now. You know, I know what deflecting sounds like, Trish; I do it all the time.”

“Right. So, wings?”

“And beer. Tap or bottle – your choice. Just text me an address and I’ll meet you in an hour.”

 

 

The curb featured both less air conditioning and more mosquitoes than the inside of the restaurant would have, but it was the most comfortable that Trish had felt all week; Jessica had that effect. Trish cradled a cup of diner coffee while Jess was making a valiant effort to avoid dropping sauce down her shirt by curling over her knees, a styrofoam container of fries carefully balanced in the space between them.

“No one expects you to save the world single handed, super woman,” Jessica said, ending the statement with a swig from her bottle. Trish glanced sidelong at her, but Jessica’s gaze veered far into the dark. From across the road, something _thunk_ ed against the rim of a garbage can and teenagers whooped loudly.

“Hey, I let you help sometimes.”

“I'm just saying, if you give yourself an aneurysm because of me, I'm gonna feel pretty bad about it.”

“It wouldn’t be because of you.” Jessica snorted. “Okay, not _just_ because of you.” Trish paused for a sip of her coffee – lukewarm at best and tasting more like vaguely arabica-flavoured water the colder it got. Probably for the best; it wasn’t like she needed the caffeine to keep her awake.

“A lot of stuff has been happening lately that – well, frankly, if you weren’t my best friend, I’m not sure how much of it I’d actually believe,” Trish said. “And most of it has kind of sucked. And what sucks more is that there’s basically nothing that I can do about any of it. So, I figure that the least I can do is stick up for the people who can."

“No, the least you can do is not put a target on your back.”

“I can handle it.”

“Yeah? And how many Mary-From-Long-Islands did you have this week?”

Trish didn’t answer. Another _thunk_ before a distinctly adult voice started shouting to cut through the laughter.

Jessica nodded. “So, when we get back, you're going to give me the number of every asshole who's so much as prank called you in the past month.”

“'I'm not going to do that. You can't just threaten every person who doesn't agree with me, Jess.”

“You have your methods, I have mine.” Jessica paused and glanced at her near-empty beer bottle, neck gripped loosely between her thumb and forefinger. Choosing to have a potentially difficult conversation over food was one of those things that Jessica could spin as either selfish or kind. That she was willing to have a difficult conversation at all should have probably counted towards kind, but Trish didn’t much feel like having it either.

“It’s not the guys in suits people are mostly worried about, anyway,” Jessica said. “People get ‘crazy’. It’s when it’s the normal-looking guy in line behind you at the supermarket that really freaks people out.”

 

 

Driving Jessica home was a peace offering on both ends. Jessica was quiet in the passenger's seat, dark hair spilling over an even darker reflection as her forehead rested against the glass. Trish would never have ascribed words like 'peaceful' to Jessica Jones, but sometimes she could almost see the potential for 'content'. More so in that distant past when they had first moved away from home, young and bright-eyed, and the world had been more exciting than terrifying.

Trish was always afraid for herself - every dark, quiet moment before her alarm and every lonely moment on a crowded street. She probably always would be. Something deeper than blood had bred that fear into her. But lately she was more often afraid for Jessica and that was so much harder to handle.

“We should do stuff like this more often," Jessica said. “Just...normal stuff.” Jessica didn't say 'like we used to' and Trish didn't point out that it had never been her decision to stop.

“I'd like that,” Trish said. Jessica drummed her fingers on the center console and Trish thought about holding her hand - just quickly, for a squeeze, just enough to regret not doing - but didn't.

Trish squinted into the dark past the headlights of an oncoming car. The driver refused to turn down their high beams even as Trish signaled them repeatedly.  “Asshole,” Jessica said.

And then Trish felt something slam into the side of her car, sending it spinning off the road, her neck pulling to the side painfully as the seat belt dug into her shoulder. And everything went to shit.

 

* * *

 

The night that the final episode of _It’s Patsy_ aired, Jessica climbed through Trish’s bedroom window, smuggling cake with all the subterfuge any normal teenager might reserve for alcohol. Jessica never bothered to sneak with alcohol – if anything, she flaunted it, daring Dorothy to do anything about it. She might have flaunted this too, but for the risk of Dorothy, already frostily displeased, ruining the evening. It was a subtle kindness.

The frosting was beginning to turn runny, like it had been left to sit too long, and Trish knew they could afford better these days. She also knew that not a dime of royalty from any _Patsy_ property had went into buying it. It was probably the best cake she’d ever had.

They laid out napkins and tried not to make a mess of the bedspread, giggling and not entirely successful. A stolen bit of childhood before the clock ran out.

“You should think about applying for college, too,” Trish said even knowing it was a betrayal to talk about the future when they were celebrating the burial of the past.

“I think I’d rather save money for my own place.” Jessica shrugged like it didn’t matter, like she shouldn't have been able to do both. It still caught Trish off-guard sometimes. She was so used to her mother wanting more and pushing to keep what they had. Jessica almost seemed to want less sometimes – simpler, easier.

“It’s not like I couldn’t afford it,” Trish said anyway. Because at least some of the money was hers and she was still getting used to that too. And because Jessica knew that and maybe didn’t roll her eyes as hard as she could have, even if she ducked her head in telltale discomfort at the idea. “I’m serious – you’re crazy smart, Jess. You should get to go if you want to.”

“I don’t even know what I’d go for,” Jessica said. “It’d end up being something useless like art.”

“If that’s what you want–”

“It’s not. I just…want to get on with it, I guess? I feel like I’m tired of waiting for my life to start.”

“Yeah,” Trish said, “I get that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jessica had been remarkably calm since she had woken up the second time. That was good thing; at least one of them should have been. Trish hadn't felt calm since they'd told her that Jessica had to be sedated. The nurse had been a perfect balance of sweet and professional when she had spoken to her, asking if there was anyone she wanted to call. But there was no one else, not for either of them.

“How are you okay?” Jessica asked, voice barely more than a croak. The crisp whiteness of the hospital room made her look worse, washed out.

“Hey, I'm fine,” Trish said and now she gripped Jessica's hand tight. Like she should have done earlier. She wondered what it would take to finally run out of second chances; some days she felt closer to finding out than others.

“No, I mean - ” Jessica's forehead wrinkled “ - I feel like _shit_. But you're okay.”

Trish paused, indecisive. Truthfully, the same thought had been at the back of her mind, but she hadn't had time to dwell on it. She had _felt_ the impact of the crash, had _known_ that it was something she wasn't going to just walk away from with bumps and bruises. But the worst that she could lay claim to was a spectacular purple patch along her rib cage and the early symptoms of whiplash.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Trish said.

“Sure. Let me know how lucky you feel after you see your new insurance premiums.” Jessica reclaimed her hand and Trish had only a moment to feel annoyed before she realized that Jessica was trying to _get up_.

“Whoa. Hey. Lie down. _Jess_. Stop. Where are you _going_?”

“Home - to shower and then self-medicate into a healing coma. Maybe not in that order. Ah, _shit._ ”

“And that’s why you’re staying right here.”

“I’ve had worse and I heal fast.”

“Then staying the night won’t kill you.” Trish shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Please, Jess, it’s been a long night. Let’s just do this the easy way for once.”

Jessica squinted at her for a moment, before falling back against the bed. She winced against the impact of the mattress, but otherwise looked unrepentant. “Fine, but you’re not spending the night in that chair. Those things are designed to give you back problems – some conspiracy with the chiropractic industry, you should Google it.”

“Sure, okay. I’m sure I can get them to set up a cot or something.” Now that she’d acknowledged it, she could feel the shakey exhaustion settling into her limbs. There was nothing more she wanted to do than lie down, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted to get up to make it happen.

“Even if you weren’t who you are, I’m pretty sure there’s some clause that means they can’t let you make your injuries worse.” Jessica closed her eyes and then didn’t move for long enough that Trish wondered if she had just decided to go to sleep right there. And then: “I’m glad that you’re okay, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Trish said. Swallowed hard. “Me too.”

 

Trish watched the doors of the elevator rattle open with frank suspicion, a dried piece of gum slowly disappearing behind the wall. “You know, you could stay at my place. I have more than enough room.”

“Absolutely not. I am sleeping in my own bed tonight and medical advice can kiss my ass.”

“Yeah, I got that part – there was a form you signed and everything. At least call your landlord about that elevator – it looks about ready to break down.”

“Must be a Tuesday.” Jessica paused to fish her keys out of her pocket; Trish was just relieved to see that she had a lock that worked for now.

It was hard not to look at Jessica’s apartment and see a million hazards waiting to set back Jessica’s recovery or else just make life really inconvenient while she still couldn’t bend too far to the left. Part of Trish knew it wasn’t entirely reasonable of her; it wasn’t like she didn’t understand what it was like to not feel safe or settled until you were allowed to go home. Part of Trish couldn’t help but focus on where the plaster from the hole in the wall hadn’t been completely swept away (and she had a funny feeling that whatever _had_ been done was down to Malcolm).

Jessica would probably be annoyed if Trish tried to clean her apartment for her.

“What did the police want with you the other day?” Jessica asked.

“Not much.” Trish shrugged before crossing her arms, leaning back on a part of the wall deliberately far from the hole. “They needed to decide whether they were charging me with reckless driving or not. They decided on ‘not’.”

“Did they say anything about the asshole who hit you?” Trish looked away. It was barely a hint of evasion, but it was enough for Jessica’s posture to suddenly straighten. “Trish, what did they say?”

“Look, it all happened really fast – ”

“Bullshit it did.”

Trish let her head knock back against the wall and briefly debated the merits of lying. She probably could have if she wanted to; she’d had a lot of years to develop that skill. But she and Jess almost never lied to each other – evaded, ignored, and occasionally withheld information, but not lied. It wasn’t an agreement, either spoken or unspoken, but it was who they were to each other. “There was no evidence of a collision with the driver's side,” she said.

Jessica looked at her for a long moment before shaking her head. “You said something hit you; how could there not be any evidence?”

“I know what I said, but maybe we need to entertain the possibility that I wasn't thinking clearly about this.” Trish could pinpoint the exact moment that the unspoken _and neither are you_ dawned on Jess; her forehead wrinkled and her lips drew into a hard, thin line.

“Where did they impound the car?”

“Jessica - ”

“Evidence or no evidence, if you say something hit you, I believe you,” Jessica said with something rigid and cold in her voice, like a thread of steel. “Now give me the name of the damn lot so I can look for myself.” Trish only hesitated a moment longer before digging in her purse for a business card. Jessica studied it before slipping it into the front pocket of her jeans. “After mind control and cults and all the other shit going on in this city, I'm willing to suspend my disbelief for phantom motorists. And I'd believe in any of that shit before I'd believe that you tried to shift the blame for something you thought was your fault.”

 

Trish’s return to work was defined by flowers and smiles and sincere sympathy. She hit every softball they threw at her because it was easier than getting her head in the game. Everywhere she was dogged by Zack’s unsubtly relieved smiles and every minute all she could think about was what Jessica might be doing right now. Jessica’s last words hadn’t been angry, but they hadn’t been an invitation to talk either.

_“There was someone else on the road that night – the jerk with the high beams? I find him, maybe I find out what happened. Relax, this is what I do.”_

They should have both known that a villain would never miss a chance to grandstand.

It happened in the lobby of the WNEX building: a brush against her shoulder that she wouldn’t have thought twice about, had already opened her mouth to apologize for. And then the man said: “Next time it won’t be just the hospital.”

She didn’t even think, whipping around and reaching for anything to stop the man from walking away. Her fingers tangled in the handle of his backpack, but the man didn’t slow or stop. The despair of knowing it wasn’t enough was like a physical blow.

Except.

Except that the handle drew taught and then didn’t move. As the man’s momentum carried him forward, the straps of his bag yanked him back and he went down like a bowling pin after a strike, arms pinwheeling in surprise. He skidded a little across the floor and one arm slipped from the straps. Time froze as they stared at each other in open shock.

The man recovered first, trying desperately to yank the backpack from her grip. She didn’t even have to try to hold on to it, it was like fighting against a small gust of wind. His face twisted as he gave up the bag for lost, freeing himself from the other strap before taking off at a run as concerned onlookers approached them.

“Are you okay?” someone asked. Trish vaguely recognized the red perm belonging to the meteorologist from the morning news program.

Trish’s heartbeat pounded a staccato against her temple and she grasped desperately for a veneer of calm. She channeled every set her mother had ever made her stand on and slung the backpack over her shoulder like it belonged there. “I’m fine,” she said and it sounded almost true. It worked well enough that no one tried to stop her when she moved to leave - beyond concerned looks and hurried whispering.

The walk back to her apartment felt long and exposed, the weight of the stolen backpack bouncing against her shoulder blades.

When she finally had her own door locked behind her, her entire body quaked with the relief. She dropped the backpack on her table and debated what should come first: opening it or calling Jessica. She couldn’t get the image of the man hitting the floor out of her mind.

It was just a thought – barely formed and already half dismissed as stupid. She hooked her fingers under the bottom of the couch and tugged, feeling out the resistance. She squatted at the knees and then lifted, making the journey by inches. As she straightened, her arms continued to move, pushing the couch above her head.

“Holy shit,” she said.

 

“I dug into those medical records for you and if IGH had their fingers in this, they were careful not to leave any prints this time,” Jessica said, continuing to lean against the wall even after Trish sat down.

Trish twisted her fingers in her lap. “Okay. So, no answers, but I guess that’s a relief in a way.”

“There’s more.” Jessica’s mouth twisted in sympathy with Trish’s hands. “So, you’re kind of strong now. I’m kind of…not. Anymore.”

“What?”

“I never have a black eye longer than one day, but my side still looks like Van Goh was using it to paint the night sky.” Jessica shifted and if the pull hurt any of her bruises, she didn’t show it. “I can deadlift about seventy pounds. Whatever the first accident did, this one…undid.”

Trish found swallowing suddenly, unaccountably difficult. “You checked your records too?”

“No IGH. If someone’s behind this, they’re playing it pretty careful.”

“No, they’re not.” Trish retrieved the backpack, half forgotten in the turns of the conversation. Now that it was back in eyesight, she couldn’t focus on anything else. Jessica moved closer, crouching down as Trish dumped the contents on the floor. “Whoever that guy was, he _really_ didn’t seem happy about leaving this behind. Lucky for us, he couldn’t resist stopping to gloat.”

“Incompetence is my second favourite trait in other people.” Jessica riffled through the potential evidence with as much care as she ever showed anything. She plucked the identification from his wallet with an ease that was a little too practiced and then shrugged before pocketing two twenties as well. “Now let’s see what kind of shit Mr. William Scott, age forty-three, was into.”

The most useful item in the backpack turned out to be an innocuous little notebook filled with dates, names, locations, and assorted notes about each. “This looks like conspiracy theory shit, but it's kind of freaking me out with how accurate it is,” Jessica said. “They've connected incidents to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen from before the news even gave him a nickname.” Jessica had spent almost longer on the pages about Luke Cage than the pages about herself, the corner of her mouth bitten red and raw with rare evidence of nerves.

About half an hour into their investigation of William Scott, Jessica had left to pick up her laptop and takeout. Now she sat on the floor, legs crossed, with her laptop open in front of her and a carton of chow mein balanced on her knee. She typed something quickly and then paused, eyebrows drawing low, before motioning Trish over. Trish took the long way around, careful not to crawl over any of the papers spread across the floor. She leaned to peer at the screen around Jessica's shoulder.

“Looks like our friend Billy's been spending a lot of time on anti-superhuman forums,” Jessica said, scrolling through the topics. Trish's eyes narrowed as she caught tidbits of titles. It would have been easy to dismiss the paranoia she saw, but bad opinions in good company were often more dangerous than they first appeared. “People almost never keep their identities as separate as they'd like to think they do. A smart kid with basic Google skills could have connected the dots.”

“Well, at least now we know 'who' and the 'why'. We just have to figure out the 'how',” Trish said.

“There's more,” Jessica said and pulled up a search of forum topics.

“He was trying to host a meet-up?”

“Right, every weekend, for months on end. No apparent biters.” Jessica scrolled a little. “But then - you see August?”

Trish looked harder in case she'd missed something, but - “There is no August. The dates jump from July to late September.”

“Exactly. This guy, desperate for a conspiracy nut tupperware party, stops posting entirely for over a month. And then the next time he posts - ” Jessica clicked the first heading from September. “This sounds less like a meet-up and more like he's planning a terrorist attack. I'm thinking sometime in that month he found some friends and they brought something better than leftover casserole.”

Trish's eyes honed in on the words 'secret weapon'. “Wanna bet that's our 'how'?”

Jessica stood up and kneaded at the small of her back with a wince. “I think it's time we made some phone calls.”

 

“I just didn't know who else to call,” Jessica said with a voice like sugar water - all of the calories with none of the substance and at least two octaves higher than its natural register. Trish wondered who she was mimicking when she did that. “I'm, like, really scared!”

Jessica paused, rotated to three-quarter-profile, and unsubtly rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been lurking forever, but it’s just, like, nobody’s actually doing anything, you know?” She paused again and then hastily grabbed paper and a pen, balancing them against her thigh as she scribbled something down. “Oh my god, thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me. Yes. Yes. Thank you, buh-bye.”

Trish could practically see the fake persona bleed from Jessica’s body as she hung up. “Well, the good news for Mr. Scott is that he’s finally getting his meeting – I-R-L,” Jessica said. “The bad news is that it’s with me.”

“You mean us,” Trish said.

“Even if you hadn’t literally dragged his ass, your face is on billboards all over this city.”

“And your name is all over his book.” Trish shook the notebook, pages ruffling emphatically. “Chances are he’s going to bolt the minute he sees either one of us.”

“So, he doesn’t see us – then what?”

“And then we – ” Trish wound her hands through the air vaguely, as if she could snatch an idea from the ether “ – I don’t know. I guess I throw him over my shoulder and haul him back here, so we can make him…talk.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow, lips trembling minutely before she turned her face away, hair masking her expression. “Lacks finesse, but a good first effort. Just don’t get too used to the powers, Xena; I’m really good at making people talk.”

 

The meeting place was a comforting public shell - a little bar with warm yellow lighting and staff who knew how to shill for tips. It was also a good hike from the nearest open business at this time of night and patronized by the kind of people who'd react to a cry of 'fire' faster than one for 'help'; the kind of place where no one wanted to know anyone else's business and would like you to mind your own, thank you very much. It was a toss-up as to whether William Scott would be paranoid enough to notice, but if he looked unsettled, it was in the way of a man who thought he may have been stood up and thought other people cared enough that he should be embarrassed by it.

They had barely more than a scrap of a plan and Trish, who wrote entries in her planner in pen, felt the pressure of that like a balloon in her chest. Perhaps it was for the best, though - all of their more complex plans seemed to end in disaster. With dead bodies more than half the time.

They let Mr. Scott drink for about an hour before sending him the frantic text that lured him into the alley; Jessica had been right about appealing to his vanity. As soon as he saw Trish waiting for him at the far end, he bolted in the other direction. Jessica had been right about his cowardice too.

“Wow, you're a real hero, huh?” Jessica stepped out to block his exit, but Mr. Scott didn’t even slow down. He kept running until he bowled her over, Jessica not moving out of either surprise or disbelief. Both of them tumbled to the ground, Mr. Scott pinning Jessica beneath his weight.

Trish didn't hesitate to cross the distance between them, hauling the man off of Jessica and then shoving him into the brick wall, hand twisted in the collar of his jacket. “Are you okay?”

“Damn, I miss being able to do that,” Jessica said. She rotated her shoulder with a wince as she stood up, but didn’t seem much worse for wear.

Trish shrugged her free shoulder. Logically, she knew that Mr. Scott had at least a hundred pounds on her, but keeping him in place was about as taxing as lifting a particularly wriggly sack of flour.

Jessica may not have had her strength, but she still moved like she did. Power lived in the width of her stride and the set of her shoulders. When she almost casually leaned against the wall beside Mr. Scott, she seemed larger than she had any right to. “You know who I am, right?” Mr. Scott nodded, eyes all but bulging from his head. Trish could feel his muscles tense and tremble. “Good because you and I are gonna have a little chat.”

 

The first thing Jessica did when they got to her apartment was dig a beer out of her fridge. She held a second one out to Trish, tilting her head in offering. Trish shook her head, sitting heavily on Jessica’s couch and trying to ignore the unease brought on by the hole at her back. Jessica didn’t put the second beer away.

“Are you sure it was all right to just leave him there?” Trish asked.

“I tipped off someone on the police force who’s…friendly. To people with powers. They'll find enough of his shit on him to know he's worth a second look; it's up to them what they do from there.” The loud crack of the beer’s tab pierced the room. Jessica took a long swig. “That’s the problem with vigilante shit – you can’t really finish anything.”

Trish leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped in the middle. She nodded over a hard swallow. “If you do, you’re the bad guy.”

“It would be nice if more bad guys finished their shit. Instead of half-assing it like this.”

“I’m not sure I agree in this case.” As Trish turned her head to Jessica, she felt her pony tail slide over shoulder, much lower and looser than it should be. She must have looked like a mess. She couldn’t bring herself to care. “You were the target here, Jess. They might be back.”

Jessica snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Trish felt alarm spike through her at that, like every nerve jolted at once. “And anyway, am I supposed to be scared of that when these people don’t even understand how their little toy works?”

“Technically it did what it’s supposed to; _you_ don’t have any powers. They just didn’t know that they gave them to me.”

“They might know now - depends on if Mr. Scott was as talkative with them as he was with us. Either way, they might expect me to be coming for them.”

A horn blared outside, loud and long. Trish suddenly found sitting impossible, a bounce starting in her leg and pumping adrenaline straight through the rest of her body. “And what if…we can’t figure out this device either. What if we can’t change things back.”

Jessica looked at her sharply. The corner of her mouth drew up on her cheek, but never approached a smile. “I guess if I had to entrust super strength to anyone, it would be you. But would you really be okay with that?”

“The year we launched the _Patsy_ _Walker_ series, my mom took me on a signing tour to a series of comic shops. It was boring mostly and I got the worst hand cramps.” Trish began to pace, feet moving almost before she’d conceived of movement. “I used to read some of the comics while the table was being set up – superhero ones, mostly. They always had these colourful covers and catchy titles. Sometimes the shop owners would let me take some home for free; Mom usually threw them out if she found them.”

“I can see why you’d like those.” Jessica opened the second beer and didn’t elaborate. Neither of them needed it to be said.

“I wanted _everyone_ to have a hero to swoop in and save them. The way that you saved me.” Trish paused in her steps, closed her eyes. Her neck twinged even though she knew there was nothing wrong with it anymore. “But I don’t know if I can keep risking _you_ for that.”

Jessica looked at her long and hard; Trish had a harder time reading her expression than she’d had in years. “You know you can’t save everyone.”

Trish scrubbed her hands harshly over her face. Her eyes watered. “I know, but I have to believe that there’s a point in trying.”

“Just…sometimes you’re not gonna win. Try not to let it get to you.”

 

There never seemed to be any way for things to go downhill except for fast. Somehow, neither of them had anticipated that an anti-super conspiracy group might not be above keeping a super on the payroll.

Trish hadn’t realized that brick could splinter, but the wall provided an excellent demonstration of this exact phenomenon upon impacting with her back. She tried to tell her body and her mind that this couldn’t be nearly as bad as she had anticipated it being; it was hard to tell what part of pain was expectation and what was reality.

Trish barely registered the hands reaching to close around her neck before she was moving again. She hooked her arms over the man’s and dove her hands into the center of his arms, twisting his wrists away from her throat. One of her right arm wound around her opponent's left, pinning it to her side, removing it from play as quickly as possible. Her other arm snapped out and caught her assailant in the chin with the heel of her palm; his head snapped back hard. Even as he was reeling, her leg was ready with the follow-up, landing a solid blow to the groin with her knee.

Even as she brought her hands back to guard, ready for round three, she couldn’t help looking around for Jess. Logically, she knew that it was a good thing if she couldn’t see her; nobody was supposed to. Logically, she knew this. Logically.

As she saw the man stagger toward recovery, she brought her hand down in a hammer fist punch. The man was ready for her this time; he grabbed her arm two handed and flipped her over his shoulder, sheer strength making up for what he lacked in technique. She hit the ground hard, back spasming against the continued abuse. The air caught in her chest and she choked on it. At once it felt like her body was fighting to live, to die, to not have to deal with the sensation of too much for a moment longer, even if her brain understood that it wasn't that bad, couldn't possibly be _that_ bad. The man didn’t give her a moment to recover, hand fisting in her hair as he attempted to drag her. She grasped desperately at his ankle, looking to throw him off-balance again, looking for just a chance. He kicked her hands away before using the grip on her hair to whip her around, sending her skidding across the pavement. She grit her teeth and tried to stay focused through it; no more slip ups.

He moved over her, started to lean down. He was going to go for a chokehold again, falling back on predictable methods against an opponent who had caught him off guard more than once. She thrust her hips up in a hard kick, both feet planting firmly in the center of his chest, putting as much power behind the movement as she could. The man flew back a way before landing hard on the ground. She rolled, propping herself up on her elbow, wincing against the stretch of sore muscle. The man’s chest looked…weird, off. He didn’t get up again.

“Holy shit, Trish.” Trish barely had time to recognize Jessica’s voice before Jessica was pulling at her arm, trying to get her up. “Trish, come on, you’ve gotta go.”

Trish looked at the man’s chest again – too low in one spot. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she could move either.

Jessica roughly grabbed her face, fingerless gloves smooth against her cheeks, and turned her head. “Trish, you can’t be here. _Go_.”

There was something like need or desperation in Jessica’s eyes. So, Trish moved.

 

Trish had the good whisky on the counter before Jessica was even out of the shower. She set down one glass. Then two. Then took one glass away again. She turned on her coffee maker.

“Whisky” was Jessica’s first word when she entered the room, hair still wet and clinging to the shape of her face. She poured herself a glass – full – and sniffed it before taking a sip. She wrinkled her nose. “Tastes expensive.”

“It was,” Trish said. Jessica was already drinking from the glass again.

“Hey, about what happened tonight – ”

“Is it fucked up that I kind of…enjoyed it. Up until everything went sideways.”

“I mean, kind of.” Jessica shrugged, drank again. “But I already knew you were an adrenaline junky.”

“It wasn’t like Simpson’s pills.”

“No offense, but good.”

Trish crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. The coffee maker beeped, but she didn’t move to do anything about it. “That guy – ”

“You did what you had to do,” Jessica said. She’d put the whisky glass down and stood with her hands loosely by her side, just looking at her.

“I know.”

Trish wasn’t surprised when Jessica moved to her and wrapped her arms around her back; she had always been quicker to physical affection than anyone with her disposition had any right to be. Trish hugged her back and buried her face in Jessica’s shoulder. Jessica’s hair smelt like her shampoo.

Trish didn’t decide to kiss Jessica so much as she gave in to it, succumbing to an irrepressible need for more - contact, comfort, companionship - to make everything else feel like less. Jessica responded instantaneously, as if this wasn’t the first time. As if it hadn’t taken ridiculous, terrible circumstances to bring them to this point. Trish wished it hadn’t, but she couldn’t take it back.

Trish hooked her hands under Jessica’s thighs and hoisted her up. Jessica let her do it, pressing close. The weight was easy to take; Jessica hardly felt like she existed at all. It was the emotional shock that unbalanced her so much that she nearly crashed them both into the nearest wall.

She lowered Jessica onto the bed, gentle but not slow. Even now, she couldn’t see Jessica as breakable, but she didn’t know how to be anything but gentle with her. As she knelt over Jessica – as Jessica looked up at her, eyelids lowered, lips parted, chest heaving – Trish felt her momentum stutter, stall. She kissed Jessica, softer and more hesitant, trying to find the rhythm again. She didn’t know how much further this should go. She wanted to continue.

Jessica rolled them over, harsh and impatient, but not entirely inconsiderate; she all but cradled Trish's back through the movement, one hand on her waist, one between her shoulder blades. The bruises stung faintly against the pressure of Jessica's fingertips and Trish's body shuddered with a weird electricity that made her curl her neck against her shoulders. Trish had to shift to free her hair from where it had caught under her back during the roll. As soon as she lifted her neck, Jessica took the opportunity to help her sweep the hair aside, hot breath puffing over her neck as Jessica brought her mouth down. Trish was hot and cold and prickly – sweaty skin, dry mouth. She ran her hands over Jessica’s back to feel the muscles work as Jessica moved down her body.

Jessica’s hands were as blunt as her mouth – slim, articulate fingers ending in calluses without a hint of subtlety. Trish was actually glad for it; hot anticipation made her want to cross her legs and spread them at the same time, leaving her squirming with the inability to do either. Somebody needed to do something.

“You better not stop,” Trish said. Just so that it was out there. Just so that they both knew.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jessica said.

 

* * *

 

 

“You should pick one,” Trish said, watching Jessica flip through the rack of posters. “It’s your wall; you can put holes in it if you want.”

“They’re your walls,” Jessica said, pushing past a Nirvana poster with a sharp squeak of metal hinges. “You pay the rent.”

“I hate it when you say things like that.” Trish put her hand out to stop Jessica from moving on to yet another poster, knowing that it was the intent more than the action that would make her stop. Jessica did stop, turning to look at Trish over her shoulder. “I want you to decorate your room, make it your own. Then it might actually feel like you’re gonna stick around.”

“I wouldn’t just ghost you.” Jessica very noticeably didn't deny that she might leave; they didn't lie to each other. Trish felt blood pounding in her ears, but she didn't dare point the omission out. She didn't really want a confirmation.

“Still,” Trish said, “I’d feel better if it looked like you lived there.”

Jessica came home with a painting a week later. The frame was cracked and splintering, but the painting itself looked to be in good shape. “It’s a cheap reproduction Egon Schiele,” she said, like that was something that anyone would know. “I found it by the curb.” She leaned it against the wall of her bedroom and shrugged. “You wanted me to decorate, right? This is classy or whatever – suits the place.”

Trish bought a new frame and hung the painting while Jessica was out, trying her luck at another interview for a job she was overqualified for.

When Jessica moved out for real, for the last time – after she went missing and came back –  Trish only noticed that the painting was missing after four days of unanswered texts and a blocked call. The frame still sat in the bedroom, leaned up against the wall.

 

* * *

 

 

Trish counted the seconds since Jessica had disappeared into the bathroom - in Mississippis, in the static behind her eyelids during a blink, in shadows crawling across her ceiling. If Jessica had really just gone to the bathroom, she would have been back by now. Trish took a breath. Another one. She could imagine Jessica sitting on the lid of the toilet or staring into the mirror above the sink, doing the same. She got up; she never had got that coffee.

 When Jessica found her, sitting on the couch with a mug and a blanket, she made no effort to approach further than the doorway. “So, this isn’t really something I…do.”

“Talk?”

“No, I keep getting suckered into that.” Jessica crossed her arms, shifting her weight to her left side. “I mean, I don’t have one night stands with people who matter.”

“Is that what this was?”

“I don’t know, was it?”

Trish shrugged before inclining her head to indicate the empty seat next her. Jessica hesitated only a moment longer before joining her on the couch.

“Ugh, I hate doing this. I didn’t even finish my whisky,” Jessica said.

“You still could; it’s over there.”

Jessica sighed gustily, but didn’t actually move to stand. Trish let the silence sit, taking another sip of her coffee. “I'm not actually that good at pushing people away,” Jessica said. Trish looked at her over the rim of her mug. “No, seriously. Somebody says something nice to me and I come crawling back like an abused dog.”

“Or maybe people just don't actually want to let you walk out of their lives,” Trish said. She set the mug down on the table, carefully, before moving to snuggle up against Jessica’s side. Jessica didn’t react beyond lifting her arm to make to room. “You're worth coming back for, Jessica Jones.”

Trish took a second to enjoy the rhythm of Jessica’s breath, the warmth radiating from her body. The comfort of holding someone and being held in return was still something that felt like a luxury to her sometimes. “I'm really bad at seeing when people are bad for me,” she said. “Sometimes I think I must have known, but I let them in anyway because I don't know any other way to be.”

 Jessica’s arm tightened around her. “It could just be because people suck.” Trish wondered if Jessica included herself in 'people', knew without asking that she did. She also knew that Jessica wasn’t always a _nice_ person, but she was a _good_ one, down to her bones.

“I slept with Hedy Wolfe once,” Trish said.

“You _what_?”

“Mm, and then I spent half a year secretly freaking out while I waited for her to leak the details to the press. It took me that long to realize that it would have been as bad for her career as it would have been for mine.”

“Probably would have been worth it, though. Hedy was hot. And mean.”

Trish hummed. Her eyes had slipped closed at some point.

“I don’t really date either,” Jessica said.

“Yeah, me neither,” Trish said.

 

Fighting with superior strength came easier through experience, but it still didn’t feel natural. Trish had trained to fight despite her size against people who would almost certainly overpower her; she hadn’t trained to hold back against people who couldn’t possibly keep up. As she tossed the last of her attempted assailants almost casually away from her, she still had to acknowledge that she would miss it when it was gone.

Jessica looked her over appraisingly. Maybe there was something in that gaze that hadn’t been there a few days ago; maybe that was wishful thinking. “Well, I guess we gave them an actual reason to be afraid of powers now.”

“People like this don’t need a reason,” Trish said.

“Hey, I wasn’t complaining.” Jessica picked the device up off the table, turning it over in hands. It was no wider than a football, metal and slightly warm to the touch; it resembled something between a child's idea of a ray gun and a Tetris piece. “Huh, I thought it’d be bigger. And look less like it came from the Toys 'R' Us bargain bin.”

Trish regarded it warily. “You heard what the guy upstairs said, right?”

“Yep, cast-offs from his time as a delivery boy. For IGH.” Jessica groaned. “I’m gonna have to care about this, aren’t I?”

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do any of this.” Trish had meant the words to be reassuring, but she heard her own voice as if from a distance, empty of anything.

“Is that what you want?” Jessica still held the device in her hands, but she looked like she would put it down the second Trish gave the word. “Would you want to just stay like this?”

Trish’s fists clenched briefly, feeling for the strength present in every muscle of her body. But it had never really belonged to her. Trish’s definition of strength had always begun and ended with Jessica Jones.

“No, it's not,” she said. “Do it.”

 

“This place looks cleaner than I remember,” Trish said.

“I think Malcolm’s rubbing off on me. I actually own spackle.” Jessica looked around her office-apartment with something that resembled distaste, except for the obvious current of pride that ran beneath it. Trish couldn’t help noticing that the printed window looked like it had actually been treated to off-brand Windex sometime in the past week.

“It looks good.” Trish placed her bag on the couch, but didn’t sit down. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s slower than I expected – given, you know, the first time.” Jessica rotated one arm, hand massaging her shoulder. “But I can feel it coming back, bit by bit. I might actually be able to hit the gym without embarrassing myself.”

“You’ve never gone to the gym in your life.” Trish flexed her hand, watching the movement of every muscle in every finger. “It’s not gone yet, but…it’s going.”

“Second thoughts?”

Trish shook her head, no hesitation. “No.”

“Good because it’s a little late now.” Jessica walked over to her, lifted a hand, and then uncharacteristically hesitated. She finally settled her hand lightly on Trish’s bicep, not quite meeting her eyes. “I almost never get to hang out with people as strong as I am. I feel like we should arm wrestle or something.”

Trish swallowed, saw the out, and didn’t take it. “I feel like that would be a waste of an opportunity, don’t you?”

“Did you have a better idea?”

When Trish leaned in to kiss her, Jessica met her half way, arms automatically winding around her. Trish surged forward, making Jessica back up until they hit a wall. When they stopped, Trish grabbed Jessica’s arms and forced them back against the wall, pinning them. Jessica was taller than her, but not enough to make the position awkward and Trish’s grip still felt firm and certain. She smiled at Jessica, just an upward turn of the lips, and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Trish felt Jessica's wrists flex under her hands, testing her grip - playing at getting away just to see if she could. Trish let her, patient, enjoying the feeling of Jessica's strength and the thrill of not knowing if she still had enough of her own to keep her there. And then Jessica grinned and relaxed, fingers splayed over the plaster behind her.

Trish kissed her again, long and slow. “You know, I don’t usually do this.”

“Really?” Jessica ran her lips lightly over Trish’s jaw, leg pushing unsubtly between Trish’s thighs. “Because I’m picking up all sorts of habits.” Trish swept one leg, catching Jessica at the ankle and pushing her leg back. Jessica’s grin widened. “I’ve got this girl I like – a really bad influence.”

“Well, that’s a problem. I was hoping to ask you out.”

“Guess you’ll just have to convince me.”

“Guess so.”

“Better get a move on.”

Trish kissed her again.

 

Jessica looked at her skeptically from the other end of the mat, fists raised not quite high enough. “This is dumb; I don’t want to hurt you.”

Trish raised an eyebrow, not dropping her own fists. “You won’t.”

“You sure about that? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kinda strong.”

“You’re just defending yourself against me today. Just give it a try.”

Trish didn’t give Jessica any more warning before coming at her. Jessica reacted, but her moves were too clearly telegraphed. Her movements were all large and lumbering, the sole strategy being Jessica’s ability to overpower almost any opponent. Provided the blows connected. Almost every person with super strength seemed to move like that; it was why Trish had wanted to do this.

Trish moved herself smoothly out of Jessica’s line, letting Jess’s momentum continue to carry her past her for a couple of critical steps. Trish brought her hand up under Jessica’s chin and her other arm behind her head and used that same momentum to push her to the ground, pinning her with a knee to the back. Trish clambered off as soon as the move was executed, extending a hand to help Jessica up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Jessica said, but she winced a little as she allowed Trish to help her up.

“Your defence is full of holes,” Trish said. “Mostly because it’s ninety percent attack.”

“What can I say: I’m strong, not a ninja.”

“You need technique to back up your power. Right now, anyone with martial arts training and a little something extra is going to kick your ass.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” Jessica moved off the mat, shrugging on her leather coat; it was a not-very-subtle indication that she considered herself done for the day. Trish let it go; she’d been lucky enough to convince Jessica to give the training a shot in the first place, she’d have to accept that progress could be made in small steps.

Besides, it didn’t need to be all work and no play.

“I thought we could go out tonight,” Trish said. “Catch dinner, maybe a movie. Maybe go skating in Central Park.”

Jessica frowned at her oddly. “I don’t know how to skate.”

“I could teach you.” Trish searched Jessica’s face, suddenly uncertain. “Or, you know, we don’t have to.”

“No.” Jessica abruptly busied herself with putting on the rest of her outerwear. “No, that sounds nice. Just, you know, I’m not sure how much fun it’ll be for you.”

“I think I’ll be happy just to do normal date stuff for a change.” Honestly, Trish didn’t have much experience with that. She’d played a normal teenager on tv; she’d never gotten to be one. But if there was anyone who wouldn’t judge her for that lack of experience, it was Jessica.

Trish paused at the door to adjust Jessica’s scarf. It had been perfectly fine in the first place and truthfully, she couldn’t justify the fussing. But it was also a deep red that paired nicely with Jessica’s hair and she figured that was reason enough. She smoothed her hands over Jessica’s lapels and swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear this one before.”

“I’m trying to wear less monochrome,” Jessica said. “It makes me look goth.”

Trish smiled and then ducked her gaze a little, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I’m glad, you know. That we’re doing this. That it’s you.”

“Even if the start was weird as shit?”

“Maybe especially because of that.”

“Good.” Jessica ducked her head so that they were forehead to forehead, her long, dark hair tickling across Trish’s cheek. “Because I’m glad it’s you too.”

 

Trish had probably started falling in love with Jessica Jones the day she caught her in the bathroom, an impossibly heavy chunk of marble sink lifted above her head. She had, perhaps, been falling ever since. Alice down the rabbit hole, falling forever and braver by the moment for the experience, no longer daunted by the comparatively minor peril of falling down stairs or off houses. She had thought once that it was comforting to have someone so strong to catch her at the bottom. It was much better, she’d come to realize, to find that Jessica was along for the fall.


End file.
